


Before the Throne

by timehopper



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Begging, Blow Jobs, Consensual Kink, Finger Sucking, Foot Jobs, M/M, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Power Dynamics, Power Play, Stepping, Throne Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-05
Updated: 2020-05-05
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:28:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23990797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/timehopper/pseuds/timehopper
Summary: Margrave Sylvain Gautier shows the newly-crowned King of Almyra how royalty should be treated... with a very hands-on demonstration.
Relationships: Sylvain Jose Gautier/Claude von Riegan
Comments: 13
Kudos: 105





	Before the Throne

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know what to say. It's straight-up PWP. No plot to be found. Just Claude, Sylvain, and blowjobs on the Almyran throne. 
> 
> So because this is kinkfic/pwp, I ask that if you're going to go forward with reading, you PLEASE mind the tags. They're there for a reason.

The hall is crowded with Almyra’s elite, drawn to the celebration from every corner of the country. Men and women in military uniforms; diplomats and ambassadors called back from their work to honour their new king; even royalty and nobility from outside Almyra. It’s strange in the best of ways, seeing them all here in their finest silks and prettiest jewelry, bright colours and twinkling gold moving across the hall to join an old friend or meet a new one. A small taste of the dream the newly-crowned king had fought so hard for, only to come up short. 

But this - this is promising. To see this now, and to have watched his guests - his _people_ \- open their hearts to someone like him, to cheer for his ascension, to celebrate the placement of the crown on his head… it stirs that old familiar feeling of hope in him again. Even more so as he’d seen the faces of his most esteemed guests, a handful of close friends and allies from Fódlan, turned upward and joining the crowd in celebration.

And of course, one guest in particular.

“Your Majesty.” 

Ah, there he is. His familiar voice, his low tone, thick and honey-sweet, reserved only for careful, dangerous requests or quiet, secret trysts. Claude knows that voice without even looking, but all the same, he turns; and sure enough it’s to the sight of a head of artfully mussed red hair bowing before him. The flourish as he bends is unnecessary, and very much reeks of Fódlan manners, but all the same, Claude finds himself smiling at the display. 

“Margrave Gautier.” The title flows from his lips, slow and appraising. He’s unused to using it - out loud, anyway - but finds he likes the feel of it. “I see you accepted my invitation.” 

Of course he had. Claude had caught glimpses of Sylvain all night, always close enough to see in his peripheral vision, but never close enough to speak, to touch. He’d watched Sylvain chat up members of the Almyran court (whether he knew who they were or not, though Claude was certain he must have), had seen him indulging in the expensive wines brought out specifically for celebration (but never over-indulging; Sylvain was nothing if not calculating when he had a goal in mind), and naturally, getting a little bit too close with the dancers and courtesans (a hand against his lips, a lingering touch, but never for too long, and only when he was being watched). 

But Claude had made sure not to seek him out. Every time their eyes had almost met, he would turn away, pretend he hadn’t seen Sylvain’s eyes drag up and down his body. Just to tease him a little, to make him want. Just like he had in the games they used to play during the war.

Sylvain had known this, of course. Claude had watched him pick up on the game, excuse himself from his company to attempt to speak with the new king, only to be deliberately swept into a new conversation any time he got a little bit too close. A woman here, an official there; even Nader had been roped into their never-ending dance with little but a sigh. 

But finally, Claude had relented. He had teased Sylvain enough - teased _himself_ enough, really, prolonging what he really wanted in the name of decorum. But now he’s impatient, and he wants the Margrave’s company, and so with Sylvain’s latest attempt at approaching him, Claude happily turns to meet him.

Sylvain kneels before him, head bowed and eyes downcast. It would have been both polite and appropriate were this not Almyra, but it is, and Claude doesn’t have the patience for Fódlan etiquette tonight. He extends his hand to Sylvain, drawing his attention with a small laugh. “You know you can stand, right?”

Sylvain’s eyes slide up from the floor. He meets Claude’s gaze under his long, dark lashes, and takes the offered hand with a grin. There’s too much _knowing_ behind it, too much _understanding_ , and Claude realizes, immediately, that he is in for a treat tonight.

Sylvain presses a kiss to the back of Claude’s hand that lasts just a moment too long. “My apologies.” His tone is low, his voice quiet. Enough so that the guards watching him out of the corners of their eyes can’t hear, but can probably guess at what he’s saying. “I suppose I’ll just have to get used to Almyran customs. As for your invitation…”

He pulls Claude close by the hand, close enough that they nearly press up against one another. The lack of a hand on the small of his back to hold him close is a little bit jarring in its unfamiliarity - Sylvain does so love to keep him trapped - but Claude recognizes the need to show restraint. Even that small tug had made the guards tense up and pull their blades halfway from their sheathes until their king had held up a hand to stay them. 

“I wouldn’t have missed this for the world.” 

His voice is even lower now, seductive in how very _Sylvain_ it is. It’s layers past casual flirtation or half-hearted attempt at conquest, somewhere right between sincere and serious. It’s Claude’s favourite tone of voice, and he feels himself shiver despite the warm night air. 

“Is that so?” He has to pull himself out of Sylvain’s hold, put a foot or so between them, if only because the look in Sylvain’s eyes is desperately making him want to eliminate that distance. But that simply would not be becoming of a newly-crowned king. 

“Yeah.” Sylvain’s grin softens into a smile as he succumbs to the need to show some shred of decency he does not truly possess. He’s no doubt perfectly aware of the eyes on him and the swords that are ready to be drawn at a moment’s notice. “It’s not every day an old friend gets crowned king.” 

Claude thinks of Dimitri, and almost points out that Sylvain has attended more friends’ coronations than most, but he bites his tongue and instead asks the more important question: “Oh, am I just an _old friend_ now?” 

Sylvain’s smile grows again, and something in it turns sharp. “More than that, of course. And you know it.” 

“True.” Claude takes a step back, lifts his arms to rest his hands behind his head, and makes sure his own grin is nothing more than casual. “As you say, I’m _also_ a king.” 

The twitch of Sylvain’s fingers tells Claude that the joke goes unappreciated. Or maybe too _well_ -appreciated. Either way, he knows now that Sylvain is desperate to touch him properly. 

But what else is new? 

“True enough. And you’ve got quite the palace to prove it.” Switching tacks. Claude has a feeling he knows where this is going. “It’s a shame I haven’t had much chance to see it.” 

And yes, there it is. Claude knows a trap when he hears one, but he’s never had a problem walking right into them, so long as it means he gets what he wants in the end (and with Sylvain, it always does). So he takes the bait, re-offers his hand. “Shame indeed. Would you like to?” 

Sylvain’s eyes slide down to his hand, then back up to his face. He takes Claude’s hand. “I would be honoured, Your Majesty.” 

And just like that, the trap is sprung. Claude pulls him along, past the vast double-doors of the banquet hall and into an equally massive corridor. He tells the guards he plans to retire for the night, and takes no small amount of glee in the reproachful looks they give him as he and the Margrave depart.

It’s good to be king.

* * *

They’re hardly out of the room when Claude rounds on Sylvain, takes his face in both hands, and drags him in for a searing, desperate kiss. Sylvain’s hands tangle in his hair, one at his temple and one at the back of his head, knocking askew the circlet Claude had chosen to wear in lieu of a more cumbersome crown. He can’t find it in him to care, though, not when Sylvain pries his lips apart to slip his tongue past them.

“You look good in regalia.” The words are breathed into his mouth, too quickly replaced by lips and teeth and tongue again for Claude to respond. He groans against Sylvain, hands dragging up his back to grip his shoulders. “Can’t wait to get it off you.” 

Claude has to pull away, then, breathless and wanting as a shudder wracks his entire body. “Gods, but I missed you,” he hisses against Sylvain’s lips, and he feels rather than sees the shift in Sylvain’s expression from ‘kissed senseless’ to ‘grinning like a cat.’ 

“Missed you too.” He kisses Claude again, full and open-mouthed, no pretense this time of starting out slow, coaxing one another into deepening the kiss. Not that there had been much of that to begin with - it was more than clear that the desperation, the longing, the _need_ to touch each other, to feel and hold and taste one another, had been mutual. And this time, it’s even better. This time it’s all fire, all teeth and tongue and low, growling moans. “You have no idea how much I’ve wanted this.”

“Tell me,” Claude breathes against his lips. He feels Sylvain shudder against him, feels the hand at his face snake down to his neck. He wishes Sylvain would grab it, press down, _choke_ him, but he knows better. It’s too soon. 

Sylvain must be thinking the same. His fingers twitch, but do not grasp, and he exhales shakily against Claude’s lips. “All those letters you sent.” They kiss again, hard and fast. “How nice Almyra is.” Another kiss. “How lonely you were.” Another. “How bored.” Another, another, another: at his cheek, his jaw, his ear. “How much you wanted to come back. How much you wanted to see _me_.” 

Sylvain bites him behind the ear, somewhere he knows Claude will only _almost_ be able to hide with his hair, if he wears it a certain way. “Do you know how many times I thought about it? Running off to come find you?” 

Claude lets his head fall back to give him better access. “Not half as many as I did, I’d wager.” 

“You’d lose that bet.” Sylvain bites him again, and any retort that may have been on Claude’s tongue dies as his lips fall open on a loud, wanton moan. He feels the redhead’s breath tickle the nape of his neck, and he whines, immediately regretting how needy it sounds, even to his own ears. 

“Your Majesty,” Sylvain teases. “Such sounds are _most_ unbecoming of a king.” 

The quiet, near-inaudible laugh on Sylvain’s breath dies when Claude reaches up and runs a hand through his hair, curling his fingers in it and pulling him roughly. “I don’t care. Do that again.” 

“Mm.” Sylvain does. And again, Claude moans, though this time he bites his lip to stifle it. “You want them to hear you?” Sylvain asks, though it’s almost more a statement than a question. “You want everyone to know that on your first official knight as king, you let a man from Fódlan have his way with you?” 

A tug of irritation pulls at Claude in the same moment a spark of arousal sets his blood aflame. Sylvain has always been mouthy - charmingly so, unfortunately - and normally, it’s appreciated. But right now, Claude has no patience for it. Right now, all he wants to do is _shut him up_. 

“No.” Claude pulls Sylvain’s hair again, this time hard enough to detach the man from his neck. He breathes in heavily, trying in vain to steady his voice. “Not here. I’m supposed to be taking you on a tour, right?”

“That was the plan,” Sylvain says, though his tone indicates that he wouldn’t mind a change of said plan. 

“Then let’s go somewhere else.” 

He tries to ignore the sparkle of delight in Sylvain’s eyes. A futile effort, really - he’s never been able to resist Sylvain. Smug as he may be, Claude still wants nothing more than to kiss him again. 

“Oh?” A hand strokes down Claude’s cheek as Sylvain leans in close. “You plan on showing me the royal chambers already?” 

Claude lets him go. Shoves him forward, easily, with one hand, towards the door at the end of the hall, and obediently, Sylvain goes, watching the new king over his shoulder. “No. Somewhere better.” 

* * *

The throne room is vast, echoing, and - most importantly - empty. 

They hear the sound of the door shutting behind them for another few seconds even after it’s been closed. It isn’t until that echo fades into nothing that either of them moves, Claude extending an arm to the room at large and urging Sylvain forward: _go on, then._

And he goes, boots silent against the plush carpet leading to the throne. It’s a surreal moment, watching Sylvain move silently under the skylight with his wide, billowy sleeves and the long, loose hem of his vest trailing behind him. He looks almost wraith-like, wrapped in dark, black clothing, his fiery hair muted in the white-blue light of the moon. 

He’d look good in gold, Claude thinks. Laid out beneath him, adorned in little chains and bracelets and jewels, those dark fabrics opened up and splayed out beneath him over satin sheets.

But that’s a thought for another time. An hour or so, maybe. Claude pushes it aside as he passes by Sylvain, fingertips tracing his lower back as he moves toward the throne. He feels rather than sees Sylvain’s eyes on him as he ascends the steps to it, one at a time, slow and deliberate enough that the soles of his shoes on the marble echoes throughout the room. 

It isn’t until he reaches the foot of the throne that Sylvain moves to follow him. Claude turns around, meets Sylvain’s eye. 

And he sits, propping his chin on the back of a hand. Sylvain watches the movement with a dark, hungry gaze, but he does not dare to move. Not until Claude beckons him close with the crook of a finger. 

Sylvain ascends the steps. He stops before the throne to look down at Claude from where he stands. Heat and need and fierce, fierce desire dance in his eyes, in his posture, in the way his tongue flicks out to wet his dry lips. 

Enough waiting. Claude reaches for Sylvain, wraps his fingers in the low neckline of his shirt. He thinks about how this sort of attire would be scandalous at a Fódlan king’s coronation, but thanks the stars that the Almyran summer’s heat has made it necessary for his own. 

He pulls, dragging Sylvain down so that he must brace himself with a hand on each arm of the throne.

“How kind of you to join me, Margrave.” Claude smiles up at him, all cool amusement and quiet want in contrast to the scalding leer and lustful grin he’s getting in return. 

“Of course.” Sylvain leans in closer. “Anything for His Majesty.” 

“Anything, hm?” Claude plays with the seam between his fingers, lets his knuckle ‘accidentally’ brush Sylvain’s bare skin, and pretends he doesn’t notice the shiver he gets in response. He smiles. “Then kiss me.” 

And Sylvain does, surging forward like a puppet whose strings have been severed. 

Claude’s arms fly up to wrap around his neck. His hands card through Sylvain’s hair, scratching and rubbing against _that_ spot on the nape of his neck, the one Claude had found one lazy afternoon before the war had broken out that had driven all thoughts of exams from both their minds. Sylvain moans against his lips and Claude swallows the noise like it’s the nectar of life, over and over and over again with every little touch and every little flick of the tongue. 

It’s almost cute, really. How even after all these years, some things haven’t changed at all. Sylvain is still sensitive in all the same spots, Claude is still happy to pick him apart and unravel all the secrets of his body, and they both still want each other just as much as they always have. 

But right now, _want_ is not enough. That want has slowly turned into _need_ , hot and roiling in the pit of Claude’s stomach. He wants to drag Sylvain down, pull him into his lap, hold him close and press their bodies together; but with every tug, Sylvain resists, determined to stay right where he is, right up until Claude breaks the kiss. 

Sylvain's breath puffs hot and damp against his lips as he grins. “Sylvain,” Claude starts, voice rough and husky. “Is something the matter?”

As expected, but no less infuriating for it, Sylvain laughs. "Of course not. Why would there be?” He lifts a hand from the throne’s arm to trace the back of a knuckle down Claude’s chest. The contact makes him shiver, but it’s not _enough_. Claude wants Sylvain’s hands all over him, on his chest, on his back, in his hair, on his neck. 

“Because you’re still up there when I need you down here.” He tugs on Sylvain again, and again, he’s met with resistance. 

“Hm. Almyran customs are so strange.” Sylvain’s eyes glint deviously as he moves, maybe subconsciously, just that little bit closer to Claude. He’s still so damned _far_ , though. Almost far enough to distract Claude from the fact that he is no doubt brewing some kind of plan in the back of his mind. And that, more than anything, makes Claude all the more eager to get him in his lap. “This isn’t at all how we treat royalty in Faerghus.” 

The temptation to point out that Faerghus technically doesn’t exist anymore is strong, but Claude is far too interested in seeing where Sylvain is going with this to stop him, so he plays along. “No? And how _do_ you treat royalty, then?”

Hungry eyes meet his, dark under Sylvain’s lashes and the shadows his bangs cast over them. “In Faerghus…” he starts, voice little more than a breath against Claude’s face. “We’re taught to kneel before the throne.” 

Claude feels his pulse quicken. He searches Sylvain’s eyes and finds fire, burning and all-consuming. A grin crawls over his face, spreading over it slowly and turning his expression predatory. “Is that so?” His voice is a whisper as he leans up, tilts his face toward Sylvain’s, and lets their lips almost brush.

“Yeah.” A breath, warm and gentle. Claude fists a hand in Sylvain’s hair. Pulls it.

Sylvain meets his eyes. Smiles.

“Then _kneel_.” 

He hardly seems to need the encouragement, sinking down to his knees just as readily as if he had been pushed and spreading the king's legs wide enough he can slot himself between them. Sylvain’s hands run over the tops of Claude’s thighs to rest at the hem of his long, flowing shirt. He slips his fingers beneath it, lifts it, and presses his lips to the sliver of skin he exposes, kissing his way from one side to the other as he noses at the dark trail of hair leading downward. His breath ghosts, hot and damp, against Claude’s skin, and he aches for more contact. 

“ _Fuck._ ” Claude's whisper comes out unsteady, his breath shaking as he trembles under Sylvain's too-light touch. Teeth scrape his skin, and though it’s impossible to tell if it was intentional, Claude twitches and arches into the contact. His hand, still in Sylvain's hair, moves to the back of his head to card through it; and idly, Claude thinks about how he's messing it up. Sylvain had clearly put in effort to look his best for the coronation, but with the way he sighs through his nose, breath flitting over what little of Claude’s skin has been exposed, it’s clear he doesn’t mind - which means Claude can enjoy making it even worse, can revel in the sight of it splaying over bedsheets and sticking to his forehead, covered in sweat--

Sylvain bites him.

Claude is violently wrenched from his thoughts as pleasure-pain shoots through his body. He gasps, the sound coloured by his voice, and he feels Sylvain laugh against him even as he sucks a mark into sensitive skin. It sets Claude's nerves alight, but he’s held in place with a firm palm on his hip while Sylvain’s other hand dips beneath his waistband. He tries to lean into it, but he’s held fast, even as Sylvain slips Claude's pants down and off.

The air hits his exposed skin, and Claude shivers despite how warm it is. He knows what’s about to happen, and in the back of his mind, he's aware of the profanity of this - of what they're about to do - but the idea of it, of desecrating this throne, the one his father sat upon, and his father before him, with a man from _Fódlan_ \--

Sylvain's lips trail away from the mark he'd left, teeth dragging along Claude's skin as he makes his way inward. He presses tiny kisses to Claude's thigh when he reaches it, then turns his head so he can rest his cheek on it. He looks, sideways, up at his king, brown eyes meeting green until they flit down again.

"Fuck," Sylvain breathes, lifting a hand to trace the pads of his gloved fingers along the underside of Claude's cock. "You're gorgeous."

Claude laughs, breath hitching in the middle of it. "Has it really been so long you've forgotten what I look like?"

"I could never forget you." Sylvain leans forward and presses a kiss to the head of Claude’s cock, tongue flicking out to lap up the drop of precum forming at the tip. He hums, his register somewhere between a sigh and a moan. "A hundred years could go by and I'd still remember this."

"Mm." Claude leans back, props his chin on the back of a hand, and watches as Sylvain takes proper hold of him. "Careful, Margrave. That sounded dangerously close to a line."

"Heh. Please." A quiet laugh, a gentle kiss. Claude groans, hips bucking into Sylvain's hand of their own accord. "You know I'd never use a line on you."

“Oh?” Claude combs his fingers through Sylvain's hair. "You know lying to me could be considered treason, right?"

"Guess you'll just have to punish me."

"Oh, I can do that." His hand slides out of Sylvain's hair, a knuckle caressing his jaw and catching in the beginnings of stubble until Claude can take firm hold of his chin. He forces Sylvain to look him in the eye, grip firm and almost rough. "But weren't you supposed to be showing me how you treat royalty?"

Sylvain's eyes go wide, comprehension twinkling in them like the starlight filtering in from above. He can't nod, not with how tight Claude’s grip on him is, but he affirms his understanding with an open mouth and a tongue slipping out to meet Claude's cock as it’s guided to his lips.

Claude lets him go. Sylvain's eyes do not leave his, even as he closes his mouth and begins to suck.

Claude leans back, lets himself relax under Sylvain’s skilled mouth. A sigh escapes his lips as he feels Sylvain take him in deeper, and he leans back far enough that the crown of his head rests against the back of the throne. He’s not permitted to relax long, however: Sylvain wastes no time in taking him by the hips, blunt nails of both hands digging in pleasantly, almost painfully, and tugging Claude forward to swallow him down to the base. 

“Fuck!” Claude curls forward, hands flying to Sylvain’s shoulders to grip them tight - until one is gently lifted away and guided upward to rest at the back of Sylvain’s head. Taking the hint for what it is, Claude grants Sylvain his wish, wrapping long, flyaway strands of red hair between his fingers and pulling. Sylvain moans appreciatively around him, brows furrowing and eyes fluttering shut as Claude drags him off his cock. 

Sylvain’s mouth hangs open as he gasps for air. A string of saliva from mouth to cock is all that’s left connecting him to Claude, and it’s broken when Sylvain licks his lips and leans forward again. He hesitates, opening his eyes to meet Claude’s gaze for but a moment before closing those wet, shining lips around Claude again.

“Gods, Sylvain--” He’s cut off by one of the hands at his hips sliding around and under his shirt to press against his back. Sylvain drags his nails down, forces Claude to arch his back and press himself deeper into his mouth. The sound that leaves Claude is somewhere between a choke and a groan, and he bites his lip, trying to hold back - though it hardly matters. The sound of it is already echoing all around them in the vast, empty room. 

Another joins it as Sylvain pulls him in impossibly deeper. He stills, throat fluttering around the head of Claude’s cock as he tries to swallow around it. He holds himself there remarkably long, even as Claude, without thinking, bucks up into his mouth at the same time his fingers clench to dig into Sylvain’s scalp. And though Sylvain chokes a little, he doesn’t fight it; if anything, he tries to press forward even further, aided by the hand at the back of his head urging him on. 

But he does need to breathe, eventually, and at last he is forced to push Claude away to curl in on himself and gasp for air. He quickly looks up, though, and meets his king’s hungry gaze, eyes unfocused and grin lopsided. Sylvain’s tongue slips out to flick at the corner of his mouth, and when he leans forward again, Claude happily guides him back where he belongs, pushing Sylvain down until his cock hits the back of his throat. 

“Good boy,” Claude croons, leaning forward to pet Sylvain’s hair. He rocks his hips up into that hot, greedy mouth, and sighs. It feels so good Claude almost - _almost_ \- doesn’t notice Sylvain shift his weight and lift a hand away from his hips.

But he does. And when he realizes why, Claude stills, a cat-like grin breaking out over his features. 

“Oh, you poor thing,” he purrs, stretching a leg out and tracing the toe of his shoe along Sylvain’s thigh. “I’ve been neglecting you, haven’t I?” 

He finds Sylvain’s hand with his foot. It rests over the bulge in his pants, and Claude gleefully nudges it aside. Sylvain groans; he slides off of Claude’s cock, head hanging between his shoulders as he shudders under the touch. Claude slides his foot upward, and Sylvain bites down a whine. 

“You like that?” Claude asks. Sylvain nods, silent but for the quiet gasps of air he desperately draws into his lungs, and though Claude doesn’t _need_ more answer than that, he demands it anyway with a press of his foot against the hard line of Sylvain’s cock. 

“Fuck! Yes, yes, I do,” Sylvain gasps. His hand finds Claude’s knee, fingers clenching and tightening into fists against it. 

“Then do you want more?” 

Another nod, this one more emphatic, more frenetic. “Yes.”

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, please.”

Better, Claude thinks. But still not good enough. “Yes, please, who?”

Sylvain looks up. His face is bright red, but there’s no shame in his voice as he rasps, “Yes, please, Your Majesty.”

Claude steps on him, and Sylvain cries out.

It's something else, hearing that beautiful, needy whine leave Sylvain and echo throughout the room. Enough that Claude permits himself to close his eyes and savour it. But he wants more, wants to make sure Sylvain feels good; he wants to drive him mad with need, just as he himself had been on countless lonely nights in his chambers. And so he drags his foot up and then back down, stroking Sylvain through his clothes. But then an idea hits him, one that he knows Sylvain will enjoy.

He stops stroking. Sylvain groans in protest, glaring at Claude from beneath his lashes. "No,” he protests, shameless and greedy. “Why did you--"

Claude holds up a hand. "Let me see it."

His voice is soft, but no less commanding for it. Sylvain looks up at him, uncomprehending until Claude flashes a significant look down between his legs. His meaning dawns in Sylvain’s eyes immediately, and obediently, he reaches down to undo the clasps of his belt and tug himself free.

"That's it," Claude says, licking his lips when he catches the first glimpse of Sylvain's cock. He pushes Sylvain's hand aside when it’s been completely exposed, thick and full and hard. But instead of stroking him, Claude just waits, his teasing smile growing when Sylvain looks up at him.

Before Sylvain can ask the question no doubt burning on his lips, however, Claude laughs. "If you want more, you're going to have to get back to work. I don't remember asking you to stop."

Sylvain's eyes go wide a second, but they roll back and slip shut as Claude traces a toe up the underside of his cock. He nods, reaches to take Claude in his hand, and leans forward like the good subject he’s so desperate to be. "Yes, Your Majesty."

And then, not a moment later, he's back on Claude, lips wrapped around the head of his cock and the flat of his tongue pressed against it. Sylvain slides down and up and down again, letting the tip of his tongue reach where the rest of his mouth can't. He holds Claude's legs open with a hand on each thigh and shuffles forward on his knees, allowing Claude better access to his cock while easing the strain on his neck.

It sends a special kind of thrill through Claude when he feels Sylvain's fingers twitch against his skin, nails nicking him every time he applies just the slightest bit more pressure to his cock; the kind of thrill that makes his head roll on his shoulders and his eyes slip shut. And then, when Sylvain moans around him--

"Ahh," Claude sighs, toes curling in his shoe. It gives Sylvain the opening he needs to surge forward, unhindered and undistracted by his own pleasure, to swallow Claude all the way to his base. He holds himself in place, long enough for Claude to feel his throat flutter and spasm, but he quickly falls back again when Claude, unwilling to be outdone, redoubles his efforts and slips off his shoe. It falls to the floor by Sylvain's knee, and the motion draws the margrave’s attention. He opens his eyes, turns them up toward Claude.

Claude laughs: a short, quiet, amused noise. Private in how it does not echo, intimate in how Sylvain shivers at the sound all the same. The corner of Claude’s lip quirks upward, and he presses his foot back down to Sylvain’s cock, emerald eyes fixed on amber.

Sylvain cries out, fingers digging into Claude's legs and head rolling back on his shoulders. He grits his teeth, sucks in shallow breaths through them, and trembles. "Fuck -- _fuck_ \--"

"Hm?" Claude steps on him again, and Sylvain curls in on himself, just barely able to lift his head enough to meet Claude's gaze.

And oh, what a look Sylvain gives him. Hazy, desperate: cheeks flushed, eyes unfocused, mouth open. A trail of saliva runs from Sylvain's lips to his chin, and Claude aches with the need to feel those wet, swollen lips around him again.

“I - Claude. Khalid. Your Majesty.” He sounds near-delirious with want, with need. He can hardly even form the proper words to ask for what he wants, let alone how he’s meant to address his king. It’s everything Claude had wanted, and he grins, leaning forward to grip Sylvain’s jaw.

Those beautiful eyes watch him, hazy and nearly unable to focus. He's perfect, Claude thinks, lost in the moment like this. Lost in his own pleasure. "Yes, Sylvain?"

“I--" Sylvain swallows. His fingers flex. He licks his lips. "Please.”

“Please what?” Claude tightens his grip. “Do you want to come?”

“ _Yes_.” The word comes out as little more than a rasp - a shuddering breath, a hiss of air. “I want - I need to. P-please. Please let me come.”

"Go on, then." Claude lets his eyes wander over Sylvain, dropping down and lingering on his hard, leaking cock before moving back to his face. He can feel how tense Sylvain is, both in his grip and under his foot, and he decides that it's about time he showed some mercy. He is not a cruel king, after all. "Touch yourself. And make sure I can see."

A breath of relief tears itself from Sylvain's throat unbidden, and he drops his gaze to the floor at the same time Claude lets go of him. "Yes. Thank you, Your Majesty."

He takes himself in hand. Claude watches, licking his lips as Sylvain runs a thumb over his own slit. He does not tease himself for long, however; it takes only a moment for him to wrap his whole hand around his cock and begin to stroke himself. His pace is quick, desperate; all the more so for the way Claude firmly presses his foot to the base to stall him.

"Don't make a mess," he warns, and Sylvain nods so quickly that Claude isn't even sure he’s processed the words. He can hardly be mad, though, when Sylvain is putting on such a show for him. Still...

He shifts his foot, sliding it between Sylvain’s legs to tease at his perineum. The motion is more for the fun of it than anything, though Claude is rewarded for it anyway by the delicious whine that slips from between Sylvain’s teeth. "Did you hear me?"

"Yes--" Sylvain bites his lip, lets it go. Tongues at the tender spot where his teeth had dug in. "I -- I heard you. I’m just -- I'm so -- please, more, Khalid, Claude, Your Majesty, I'm so close..."

Claude smiles. "Good boy," he says. And then he pushes up, once more, right in the spot at the base of his cock that he knows Sylvain likes best.

Sylvain jolts, arching his back as his face turns skyward. His mouth falls open on a strangled cry, and he comes in his hand, careful to catch it all even as he keeps jerking himself off through it. The sight makes Claude's own cock twitch, and without thinking, he takes hold of it and starts to stroke himself, spurred on by the sight of Sylvain’s tensing and relaxing as the last waves of his orgasm crash over him and slowly ebb away.

Even as Sylvain’s eyes open and his posture loosens, Claude watches. He leans back, drinking him in and wishing he were closer. Close enough to kiss, to touch, to pull onto his lap and surge up into. 

Sylvain turns to look at him. His contented smile slowly twists and morphs into a smirk, and he moves forward in the same moment Claude reaches for him. He does not allow himself to be pulled into the kiss his king wants, however; instead, he kneels before the throne once more, and presses his lips to the tip of Claude’s cock. 

Sylvain grins. His eyes are still foggy, but his gaze pierces Claude all the same. "My apologies, Your Majesty,” he murmurs. “It seems this time I'm the one who has neglected you."

And oh, the smugness in his voice - familiar, enticing; everything Claude loves and wants from Sylvain summarized. It sends a spark through him: fire and electricity and heat, want, _need_.

He pushes Sylvain back down onto him wordlessly, and can very nearly feel the smile on Sylvain's lips as he goes down. Claude thrusts upward, all shreds of restraint gone, and relishes in the tiny, cut-off groan the movement pulls from Sylvain.

"Make sure you swallow," he rasps, threading his fingers through Sylvain's hair and holding him firmly in place as he fucks up into his willing mouth. Sylvain's hands come to his hips again, nails leaving tiny welts as he pulls Claude forward, forces him in deeper. He cries out; Sylvain convulses beneath him as his throat closes around the head of Claude’s cock, but it’s not enough, not _enough_ \--

And Sylvain must know it, too, because not a second later, he adjusts and takes Claude in impossibly deeper, swallowing around him and stroking him with his tongue.

And that's it - the last push Claude needs before he lets himself go. He comes down Sylvain's throat and Sylvain works him through it, head bobbing and tongue lapping at anything it can reach. He thrusts shallowly upward into his lover’s mouth, and Sylvain calmly takes it all, pulling away only when Claude stills at last, satisfied and completely spent.

He slumps forward on the throne, supported only by Sylvain's hands on him. He hadn't realized his eyes had slipped shut until they flutter open to watch as Sylvain presses a slow, light kiss to the inside of his knee. Honey-brown eyes, darker than usual in the low light of the throne room, turn up to Claude, and Sylvain smiles.

“Did you get all of it?” Claude asks as he moves his hand from the back of Sylvain’s head to his cheek, fingers pressed to it as his thumb strokes Sylvain’s lips. He slips it between them, pries his mouth open. “Let me see.”

Sylvain obeys the motion and lets his mouth fall open, nice and wide. He sticks his tongue out - not a trace of cum upon it - and though he can’t quite smile, the crinkle at the corners of his eyes are clear enough in portraying his joy.

“Very good.” Claude moves his thumb to rest over Sylvain’s tongue, and Sylvain closes his mouth over it. He sucks the digit further into his mouth, laving it with his tongue. His eyelids droop, and this time he really does smirk. A shiver runs down Claude’s spine that has nothing to do with the open air of the throne room.

"There’s a good boy." Claude strokes Sylvain's tongue once, twice, thrice before withdrawing his thumb and letting him go. Sylvain's lips part and he sighs, reverent, as he moves to lean his head on Claude's knee and blink lazily up at the king.

A coy smile plays about his face. "I take it Your Majesty is pleased, then?" Sylvain asks, with that same hint of his earlier smugness underlying his sleepy tone. Claude cards a hand through his hair absent-mindedly, humming to himself as if considering the question.

"For now," he says. "You were right. It seems that Faerghus really does knows how to treat royalty."

"Mm. Told you." Sylvain lets his eyes slip shut. He leans into Claude's touch, sighing through his nose.

"But..."

He cracks an eye open. "Hm?"

"We still have the rest of the tour to finish," Claude says, the words coloured by a quiet, hardly-perceptible laugh. "What say I show you the royal chambers and teach you the _proper_ way to pay respects to an Almyran king?"

Sylvain grins. "If Your Majesty will have me, I'll go wherever you please."

"Good." Claude tugs on his hair and pulls Sylvain up and off of him, only to stand and pull him back down for a long, deep kiss. "Because there's so much I want to show you."

He redresses, takes Sylvain’s hand, and leads him out of the throne room. They have a long night ahead of them.

**Author's Note:**

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